I carry home
a leaf for Timothy
from beneath
a tall fig tree,
from below
its canopy,
green spread on blue,
from beneath
its buttress roots
that stretch like giant limbs
into earth.

Smooth, dark-green and veined it is.
I hold it to the winter sun
and see the ever-finer branchings,
intricate beyond my sight.

All life depends upon the light,
warm light that powers the life of leaves,
on weaving nourishment from rain and soil,
and breathing substance of the air.

And thus despite
the wire and the rays,
the concrete and the steel,
our mineral pride,
I know from ancient days,
from some faint utterance that comes
from atavistic and deep time,
from forest aeons of the dream,
that we were born to leaves.

And thus, for little learning eyes,
I hold it up and speak.
And thus, for little learning ears,
I show a word for leaf.

!
oh! it's marvelous!
you, sir, are a WONDERFUL father, and a Teacher of the Important Things. SOMEBODY's gotta do it! very fine words, excellent rumination on what makes a leaf a leaf. Timothy is a lucky boy. 8) anne

Thanks Anne & Marty
Thanks for your perceptive comments (aI don't know about being a wonderful father per se we all try I guess). Have enjoyed Summer Sizzle on my mp3 for a while- will try to get time to download some of your other work.
Cheers
Mark